Dream Weaver
by Someonething94
Summary: How do you pull someone into reality when they live in the Realm of Dreams?
1. Imagine Imogen

_In this world_

_The dream's of children_

_Are_ _the only thing pure_

_And full of truth._

* * *

><p>Waking up always took forever, and always included a morning routine - unless the person was nocturnal, then it was a night time routine. However, upon waking up, Imogen could not tell what time it was, nor could she tell where she was. The bed was unfamiliar with new, white sheets and pillows and blankets, all of which she had never lain her eyes on before. It was a four poster bed, and upon removing the veil-like, transparent white curtains, she could not tell where she was based on the room the bed was located in. Ideas boggled about in her skull until her head began to ache. The walls were painted black, the doors were white. The floors were large black and white tiles, a yard by a yard wide. For now, the setting was bland, but Imogen was a Dream Weaver. The only limitations she knew were those of her imagination and creativity.<p>

The woman of twenty-three sprung from the bed and landed on her hands. She hopped onto a white tile and pressed a black tile next to it with her foot. It immediately sprung up to her full height. Inside the prism was a wardrobe of outfits, in stepped the young woman. "Now to see where I have fallen," Imogen murmured to herself as she exited the closet in a tank top and long, flowing skirt. The prism returned to its life as a tile and the young woman's feet carried her to the door which she walked right through. The hallway she entered went to the right, to the left, and straight, so she took a left.

A man came running at her from behind, screaming something. "Hey! You! You, get back here! Don't walk away from me! You know I'm talking to you, freak!" He was dressed in a suit, and he was bald for the most part.

Imogen turned around and smiled at him. Her long skirt ruffled and twisted around her, flickering specks of white at her bare feet a few times before settling to a somewhat still position. "Well, aren't you in a chipper mood, sir. You call me "Freak" and I'll call you..." Imogen put a finger to her chin as she thought about a nickname for the rude man. "I could call you "Baldy" or "Ornery" I think that one's cute," giggled the woman as she rested her hands back at her sides and walked through him. "So tell me, Ornery, what is this place and why am I here?" She inquired lightheartedly.

"Just follow me," grumbled the man as he headed the way they had come.

"Oh, I see, you're Bossy!" Imogen giggled as she followed him down the hallways then into a study. "Are you going to tell me anything at all, Bossy?" The walls were covered in books and the room was decorated with Victorian Era furniture. Personally, the young woman was impressed by the collection. There was an old musty smell about the room which was generally brought about by an old book being open or from dusty, old oak window panes. "_It smells like Father's study, the way it did before I passed..._" the woman thought grimly and let out a heavy sigh.

"Suddenly not so chipper, Freak," the man taunted coldly.

Imogen looked up at the man with upset eyes. "I don't see you as a ghost, Bossy, but I suggest you don't anger those who decide whether you have the gift of a dream or a nightmare."

Bossy rolled his eyes and turned away from Imogen to look about the room. "Where did Krauss go?" He questioned into the empty, musty air. Then the man in the suit went into the hallway for a moment then came back. After a few minutes, several other people walked in. One was red, another was blue, there was a woman, than a man in what bore very close resemblance to an old diving suit. "So, tell me, who are you."

"I am Imogen... Somethin'-or-another."

"_And?_"

"Aaaaand?" Imogen taunted. "You're quite rude, Bossy. Not even tellin' me yer name! Not much of a gentleman you are! Father always told me people like you were people I should not trust. I think you deserve nightmares!"

The red man with horns and a tail and funny legs sat down in a red, leather chair. "You talk like you're a little kid," he scoffed as he lit up a cigar.

"As I should!" Imogen retorted with a _Hurumph!_

"What are you exactly?" The tin can asked.

Imogen grinned and triumphantly replied, "I'm a Dream Weaver!" The woman was sincerely proud of her title.

If the thing could smile, it probably would have. "And that means what exactly?"

"It means I've been dead a loooong time, and I know a lot, and I make dreams and nightmares, and I've passed a lot of tests in the afterlife, because I wanted to be a Weaver," replied Imogen quickly. "Father was really sad when it happened, and started smoking and drinking a lot more, but I helped a little. I gave him good dreams and nice sleepy times. Mama... Mama didn't last too long though. That was when Father was overwhelmed with sadness, and I couldn't help much after that, because Mama lingered."

"Is that so now?" The diver wondered. "Did you know that you fell out of Agent Sherman's ear?"

"Oh really?" Imogen tilted her head to the side as she thought about it. "Oh! I remember now! Miss, you have such a pretty little head, I left you're dreams 'cus I thought you were really sweet. And- Well I can't exactly say the personal stuff in front of everyone, now can I? That would be awfully mean of me."

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><p>I don't own Hellboy.<p>

I hope you enjoyed.


	2. Dead Conversation

_I remember freedom_

_All that spirit_

_I had as a child_

_It died with me_

* * *

><p>The rooms were beautiful and highly decorative, and Imogen was very surprised when she found out that the BPRD was really a government funded facility. This is what the government spend their money on - the Paranormal? Even more odd, they never told the outside world. Maybe she had visited someone's dream and she had heard of this place before, but it was all still so new yet familiar. Perhaps this was the place she was supposed to be.<p>

"Are you a ghost?" A voice from behind Imogen asked as she slouched lazily on a couch, sprawled out with a big nursery rhyme book.

The young woman could tell where the question had come from, it wasn't out of the blue like most. "In a sense, yes. I have died, and now I live another life," Imogen replied. Her hair was white, her skin was white, her clothes were white, all together, she was translucent and seemed to give off a certain glow. Perhaps she was a fallen angel. Her hair flowed as if gravity had no pull on it, her gowns sometimes did the same. Always flowing, always mysterious. It was very curious how she had gotten to be in the world of the living. "I guess, I'm not really alive."

"I'm not here for a debate, really," the voice replied with a hint of a laugh. The person sat down in a chair parallel to her, but Imogen did not feel like craning her neck to see who it was she was talking to.

She sighed softly and turned to the next page. "Whatever you are here for, I certainly wouldn't mind knowing."

"I'd like to know everything about you," the person admitted.

Imogen sighed softly, her eyes drifted over to see that Johann Krauss had been asking all of these questions. "Are you a therapist or something?" She asked softly, trying to keep the conversation lighthearted. It was just so hard to do anything, even concentrate. There was no child's mind she could enter, no one to make happy with dreams and memories. No one here was lighthearted feeling, only proper behavior, and knowing of death.

"No, I'm not. I'm simply curious, that is all," Krauss replied.

"I died young, very young. I was killed, thinking foolishly, but not lied to. When a child is told they have the opportunity to go to another world, one that is better and has so many freedoms; when this place is seemingly mythical... What's to stop that child from wanting to go when they believe in it with their whole heart? I believed the girl I called a friend, when she told me that if she held my head under water long enough, I would be able to go to that world. I could be anything I wanted to be.

"Maybe I'm some sort of mythical being, taking on the attributes of my place of death; but maybe I am just a ghost who is trapped in this parallel, living off only the minds of others. I could be tricking myself, playing pretend so to say. Living, in a figure of speech, the life I want this to be. I don't want to give false hope, or promote children into dieing. I just want them to have wild and free imaginations. Even their parents need to have dreams like that," Imogen sighed softly and slouched in the sofa more. "Everyone does."

Krauss seemed to think for a short while, and the two basked in the silence of the library. The knowledge and lore of all the books of supposed mythology seemed to melt into a person's being after some time, but both being ghosts, it was much easier to absorb any information they wished to hold. "How old were you," he started, "when you died, I mean?"

Imogen offered up a small, sad, little smile. She looked a little more pale than usual, and she seemed as if she was going to be sick. Had he gone too far with the questioning? Had he asked too much? Was she dieing? "It was June 22nd, I had just turned three-and-a-half. I don't know what year." She sighed softly and looked down at her dress and straightened it a little. "It wasn't on my gravestone..." Again, it was quiet, and the books with their knowledge and history took up time and space. Imogen had gotten up, hovered for a moment then sat down and held her head in her hands. A small whimper came from her.

The other ghost stood from his seat and went to her chair. He knelt down in front of her. "Are you all right, my dear?" He asked rather politely and formally, like a true gentleman.

Imogen heaved out a heavy sigh as if something ten times her formal weight sat on her chest. It took a little while before she could respond, but eventually, she sat up. Her posture was distressed. She was slouching back in the arm chair and trying her best to relax. "I spend all of my time in the realm of dreams, I can hardly stand all of this seriousness. The living world, reality, is... It's unbearable. It's lonely. I need a mind to talk to, and sink into, and communicate with and connect with. I can't stand this. Not one bit. Not at all," ranted Imogen childishly, ready to wail and try again. She was holding back tears and was just as emotional as the child that died to become her. "I swear I could go ballistic. I don't know how you, or anyone else for that matter, can do this! How can you exist in the real place, stuck forever? I... I don't know what to do..."

All the books in the world could not have settled her inner turmoil. The man didn't know what to do, he had never come across a Dream Weaver ever before, even when he was living. Perhaps Miss Imogen was not meant to be in reality at all, but really stuck in the worlds made of dreams and the imaginations of young children. "Do you ever sleep?"

"I dream about growing gills and being chased by giant sharks or having to kill giant squids..." Imogen answered softly, head in her hands again. She was sulking.

"Then let me escort you to your room so you can sleep. Maybe that will help tide you over a little longer while Miss Sherman is away on a mission," Krauss suggested gently and stood, offering her an arm.

The young woman offered up a small, sweet smile and stood. It was clear that she was exhausted, though she had only been up for less than an hour. Maybe she was never meant to truly be awake.

"Thank you, Johann."


End file.
